DFW PDX and Truth or Dare
by I said dangerous
Summary: It is amazing to me, this internet pervasiveness in our lives. Only a few years ago, many didn't even have daily web access. Now, can you imagine life without connectivity? What I'm most thankful for are the links to wonderful people. BritLitChick and I met because of Sherlock and FanFiction. The bond was struck and creativity flowed. Here are a couple of samples to enjoy!


Hello all!

As you can't put URLs here, (because FF just removes them), you can just link to the full stories from my 'favourite authors' tab - select BritLitChick.

Here are a couple of small excerpts from two stories; the first of which I had the fabulous pleasure of editing and subsequently co-authoring the sequel!

**DFW PDX**

(note: alternating Sherlock's POV, then Grace Hammer's POV)

"That was exquisite," she said. "It was marvelous to watch your hands." I found myself curious to hear _her_ interpretation someday. Still elated from the endorphins drawn forth by the Chopin, I asked, "What would you like to hear next?" The open invitation was spontaneous. It had been years since I'd played for anyone else, and I was enjoying myself. Her choice brought me up short, though. "Holmes," she said, positively.

He was one of those people who can play without looking at the keyboard at all. So far, he'd been looking toward me as he played, mostly, although the focus of his attention was always on the music. But now he became still, his gaze fixed on the music rest above the keyboard. His hands rubbed his thighs while he debated whether to honor my request. Quietly, I went to a nearby chair, just at the edge of his vision, and sat down, hoping to seem attentive and encouraging, but not distracting. Coming to his decision, he placed his hands on the keyboard, allowing his eyes to close and his breathing to settle, each finger resting precisely over a note while he brought the piece to mind and gathered his energy to play it. Finally, he began. The first chords, minor, were soft, yet ominous. This time, when he opened his eyes, he looked only at, or through, the piano as he played. Executing this private piece, he had entered a private space, merely leaving its door open a bit for me to hear. As it gained momentum, his concentration narrowed even further, to include only himself and the music. The music ... it was intricate, yet powerful, with a regular structure intermittently shot through with furious shifts in key, time signature, tempo, and mood. It was like no other composer's style I had ever heard, vaguely Romantic but untethered to its rules. Initially beautiful and uplifting, it became darker as it progressed, descending into unpleasant but strangely effective dissonances in the lower registers. I was drawn in, not enjoying it so much as being deeply moved by it. Suddenly I realized that the piece was a portrait of the man himself, with long phrases of serene harmonic clarity shattered by surging and incomprehensible crescendos of chaos. It was at least partially improvised; I knew he'd never played it just that way before, and never would again.

I finished, and removed my hands from the instrument, severing my connection with it. There would be no more playing this evening. As always happened with this piece, it took me some seconds to resurface. I hadn't meant for it to go in quite that direction, for it to have been quite that ... explicit. But it had its own life, it seemed, expressed differently each time I released it. I'd never played any variation of it for another; even at QE Hall I worked with it infrequently, late nights or on holidays, unwilling to be overhead. I didn't want to look at Grace, to see her reaction; there could be no correct response. It had been an appalling mistake to play it. Anything she might say would cheapen its meaning. Even so, the moment arrived, and I turned on the bench. She wasn't looking in my direction. The last notes had faded some minutes ago, but she was still in their thrall. Her perception necessarily incomplete, she was still staggered by the central message of the theme, and her eyelashes glistened in empathy with its implications. At my motion, she came to herself and turned her face to me. Compassionate, she said nothing, but in her expression: _There are no words. _

**Truth or Dare**

(note: Sherlock's POV)

I recognized that this was probably one of those situations in which I was expected to offer some sort of comfort. To shorten the process and to be on our way, I checked my repertoire of lessons from John for something Grace might find helpful. What would John say?

"Do you need some privacy?" I asked.

She shook her head. A sudden, sparkling mirth joined the fading grief in her expression, and then overcame the last of it. "Okay, that did it, I'm done now," she said, finally dabbing away the tears and standing. She smiled at me, apparently back to normal. "Let's go."

"What, exactly, did what?" I asked, not moving. "Explain. Briefly." I'd seen women go on and on about the smallest things, if it involved sentiment. Boring in the extreme. Perhaps Grace could be more succinct.

"Oh, it's just your accent again. Some of the alternative pronunciations are so delightful. _Privacy._ Just the way you said it." She stifled a chuckle.

I frowned at the sudden shift of mood and topic. "Oh, how brilliant. You obviously seem to …" I began, but then her suppressed laugh broke free. "Oh, God, how you do that, so naturally. And it's really, truly the way you speak," she bubbled. "You're the walking BBC and you're not even teasing."

It was annoying, this fixation on the language differences. Obviously, Grace needed no comfort from me. I turned and stalked away down the hall. She followed, though.

"No… wait a tic! You're doing it on purpose, aren't you? You're trying to cheer me up. You think you're too clever by half. Next you'll be chatting me up whilst offering me bloody crisps and dodgy takeaway. What cheek!"

Still walking down the hall, I could think of only one thing to say. "Get bent," I muttered.

Behind me, I heard her stop. "Well played," she said, her tone admiring.

I whirled around. "Now, just you hang on! You say you're going to spend a penny, and you assume I'm such a prat, I'll just be happy faffing about, which is rubbish, because I'm knackered and need my nosh! I'm not the one that looks spotty enough to top myself!"

She was ready, though. "Listen, you daft git, stop being a chav. You know how spiffing and fit you look. Especially wanking away on Tufte's viola like you were the Queen's own. You think I'm randy enough to get my knickers in a twist over a toff like you?"

(I sooooo want to add more, but this scene is really such fun, you should read it in it's entirety!)

Please let us know what you think, by way of reviewing. As ever, our sincere thanks for reading!


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